by Rex Stout
“That depends. It is once in a while, like with you, for instance. I could listen to you all day. When you came in the room I said to myself, ‘Open your eyes, Georgie.’ But I made a bet with myself you wouldn’t say a word. You notice I didn’t wait for a second invitation.”
This time Miss Tellon could not repress the smile.
“You are very flattering,” she said, vastly amused.
“Not yet,” denied Mr. Carlsen emphatically, crossing his legs and leaning back against the piano. “That’s what they all say when they know they’ve got the looks. I read somewhere that a woman is always picking on her strongest point just to call attention to it. Ten to one you’re saying something mean about your hair every five minutes just because you know it’s beautiful. I never saw such beautiful hair.”
“Really—” began Miss Tellon, feeling that this was about enough; but he ruthlessly interrupted her.
“Come off now, you know it is. Looks just like some great actress—I forget her name—saw her in the movies the other night. Most beautiful actress on the stage. That’s where you ought to be.”
“What—?”
“On the stage. Sure you ought. You know, that’s a thing I can’t understand. Here you are, taking orders from somebody not a bit better than you are, waiting on table or combing hair or whatever you do, making maybe ten or twelve dollars a week, and you might just as well be a Sarah Bernhardt or an Eva Tanguay. They both started in the chorus. Where’s the sense in it? Anybody could see that you’re the kind that’s got it in you. I saw it the first minute. As soon as you come in the door I said to myself, ‘Take a peek, Georgie.’ On the square.”
Miss Tellon, at the same moment that she understood his audacity, felt greatly relieved. It was not that she, a princess, was pleased at being mistaken for a servant; she merely felt that what had been an inexcusable disregard of her dignity was become a legitimate amusement. What tremendous fun! She tried to bring a silly smile to her lips; she conceived that under such circumstances a maidservant would always wear a silly smile—of encouragement.
“By the way,” Mr. Carlsen was saying, and his tone seemed to indicate that the time had come for serious business, “you haven’t told me your name.”
“No, I haven’t,” she replied stupidly.
“Well—” he observed meaningly.
“Jennie Bellay,” said Veronica, her invention failing her, and reflecting that it wouldn’t do Jennie any harm.
“Ah, Bellay!” said Mr. Carlsen as though he had been expecting that all along. “Pretty name. You don’t mind if I call you Jennie, do you?”
“Well—you see, I don’t know you—”
“That’s all right. What’s the use of being unfriendly? I like that name, Jennie. I suppose you go out sometimes of evenings?”
“Sometimes—yes.”
“Ever go to the shows?”
“Why—yes.”
Miss Tellon felt that she was playing her part miserably, but she managed to preserve the silly smile.
“They’ve got on a beauty down at the Stuyvesant now,” went on Mr. Carlsen with increasing enthusiasm. “I don’t suppose you’d care to see it?”
“Why—I don’t know—”
“We could go down any night this week—any night you’re off. What do you say we go?”
“But why do you want me to go?”
“Because I like you,” said Mr. Carlsen promptly. “You ought to know that—how could I help it? I don’t go around with my eyes shut. I’m not blind. I like you fine, and I want to like you better. Believe me, it won’t be a hard job. When shall we go?”
“I’m not sure I can go,” Veronica replied weakly.
“Oh, I guess you can. Why not? Shall I get tickets for Thursday night? I—”
He stopped abruptly, looking at her curiously as though he had just thought of something, then suddenly got up and stood by her chair, in front, quite close.
“Look here,” he said, leaning down and speaking in a new tone, “don’t you think I like you?”
“Why—I don’t know—” stammered Veronica.
“Well I do, and I’ll prove it,” he replied gaily.
And the next thing Miss Tellon knew an arm was passed around her neck and a pair of firm lips were planted on hers. Mr. Carlsen was no bungler. He did the thing expertly, firmly and thoroughly. There was no roughness in it, but nevertheless his encircling arm held her as in a vise. This exhibition of the oldest art in the world lasted while a watch would tick off five seconds.
“When shall we—” he began to murmur in her ear. But she, feeling herself partially released, sprang to her feet and stood trembling violently, with her face a flaming red all over.
“Oh—” she gasped, “I—you—you—”
Then a shadow caught her eyes, and she glanced at the door in time to see Albert Crevel enter. Carlsen, seeing her look, turned.
Mr. Crevel, dressed irreproachably in a dark walking-coat and gray trousers, advanced toward them with the easy familiarity of one at home.
Veronica heard his greeting but was unable to reply, and she saw him standing before her with a puzzled smile on his lips.
“What—” he began, looking at Carlsen.
Veronica made a great effort.
“It is just—just the piano-tuner.”
She added turning to the other:
“You have finished, I believe?”
Mr. Carlsen was already picking up his hat and leather case. Whether he realized his horrible mistake is an open question; he may or may not have become aware that he had kissed a princess. Certain it is that he retained all his presence of mind, for as he straightened himself and turned after picking up his hat he sent a deliberate wink, superbly executed, straight at Miss Tellon.
“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, and departed.
They watched him to the door. Then they turned to look at each other. Veronica’s face was still a little flushed, but she had regained control of herself.
“Well!” said Crevel with emphasis. “What’s all this? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she replied coolly, setting herself on the piano bench.
“But you were positively flustered,” he insisted. “What did he do? Was he impudent?”
She smiled faintly.
“Oh, no. We disagreed, that was all.”
“Ah! I see.”
He remained standing for a moment, looking at her, then sat down on the chair she had left shortly before. There was an uncomfortable silence. Veronica kept her eyes turned from him; a thousand mad thoughts were rushing through her brain, all the more confused because of her burning lips. She wanted to rub them with her handkerchief, but somehow could not. She was aware that Crevel was looking at her, and she felt a strain, a high tension, in the atmosphere.
Suddenly she turned and met his gaze.
“Albert,” she said, “I can’t marry you.”
It was impulse that spoke, but as she heard the words coming from her mouth she experienced a feeling of divine relief. Then unbounded wonder. Where had she found the strength to utter them? For many months she had been trying to say just those five words; what drove them forth now? The kiss of a piano-tuner? Well, why not? Let us be thankful for anything that brings freedom with it! As for Crevel, of course he was shocked, astounded; he would refuse to believe her. She didn’t know him very well, but she rather expected an explosion.
But he said absolutely nothing; he made no sound or movement, but merely sat and looked at her, though his eyes narrowed a little. It was she who was amazed. Hadn’t he heard her? Surely he had. And finally he spoke.
“I’ve been waiting for you to say that for six months,” he said calmly.
Astonishment—!
“But you took long enough to get to it,” he went on, seeing that she was spe
echless. “Only two weeks before the wedding. That makes it inconvenient.”
“You expected it!” gasped Veronica.
“Of course.”
“But why—I can’t believe—”
“My dear Veronica, I’m no fool. You have never wanted to marry me. And I knew you had the courage to say so, so it was merely a matter of time. But, by Jove, I’ve been frightened lately. I was afraid you were going to wait till we were actually at the altar—I was, really. That would have been awful. For of course we would have had to call it off.”
Veronica was too amazed to speak.
“But why—” she stammered.
“Well?”
“Aren’t you going—to insist on it?”
“On what?”
“On my marrying you.”
“Good heavens, no!”
He smiled at her. His sincerity was unmistakable. She couldn’t understand it. But what was it she couldn’t understand? Oh, yes. She put the question:
“Then why didn’t you—call it off—yourself?”
It was Crevel’s turn to hesitate and search for words. He seemed suddenly stricken with a terrible embarrassment. The smile left his lips.
“I don’t think I can tell you that,” he said finally.
“Why not?”
“Well, I will.” He took a breath. “You will probably laugh, but I can stand it.”
Another breath.
“Because I love you.”
Then he went on hurriedly, “You won’t understand, but I’ll try to explain. I’ve thought you knew all along, the past month or so. I do love you. The funny part of it is, I know just when it began, the very day and hour. It was when I first saw that you didn’t want to marry me, one day last July at Newport.”
Veronica glanced at him. She remembered that day very well, but she hadn’t supposed he did. This began to sound interesting.
“I couldn’t believe it at first,” he went on, “that I loved you. It seemed so absurd. I’d known you nearly all my life—that is, I’d been acquainted with you. You know how it was: they had it all fixed up for us to marry each other a long time ago. Then after I came of age I kept putting it off. I didn’t know you very well, and I didn’t like you. Neither did you like me, though I didn’t know it then. Finally I had to give in and I asked you to marry me. That was the tenth of last December.”
He paused. Veronica nodded, and he went on:
“So we were engaged. I thought about it as little as possible, and I saw you only when I had to, to keep up appearances. I began to think I hated you and I regarded it as a weakness, because I knew we were doing only what others do in our set. And besides, you—well, you—”
“I know,” said Veronica shortly. “I was sentimental. You needn’t remind me of it.”
“Then came that day at Newport. I was positively amazed to find that you hated me too. Conceit, I suppose, but you cured it. And it changed me entirely—I mean it changed you. You didn’t seem to be the same person. In a single hour, in one minute, I think, my hate was changed to love. I laughed at myself, I cursed myself, I went out on DuMont’s yacht with the Halloway crowd. I did everything, but the result was that when I saw you again I loved you more than ever.”
Veronica stirred uneasily. Her eyes were on the floor.
“So you see what a fix I was in,” Crevel continued. “As a matter of fact, I had some pretty bad times with myself. But I finally decided to leave it up to you. Several times I resolved to tell you—to try to show you—but every time you did or said something that sent me back to cover. It’s an impossible thing to tell a girl you love her after you’re engaged if you haven’t told her before. So I decided that if you went through with it perhaps it would be all right in the end. But I knew all the time that sooner or later you’d call it off. And you see,” he finished, “I was right.”
“It may be,” Veronica said in a low tone, as if to herself, in answer to her thoughts, “that you are merely—clever.”
“No. Because I am not asking you for anything. You must not misunderstand that. You must believe in my frankness, for I admit I am not giving up hope either. You have had no reason for disliking me except that you were engaged to me. Now, thank heaven, it’s all over, and I can take my chance.”
“Your chance—?”
“Of making you love me. I don’t want to marry you now. That’s past and forgotten. Thank God, you had the courage to do it! I couldn’t; I wanted you too much for that. Listen: You will understand—you will feel it better if you do something. Give me back my ring.”
As she heard the word Veronica glanced involuntarily at the solitaire diamond on the third finger of her left hand. Then, with a hasty, impulsive movement, she drew it off. There she stopped, and gazed at it as it lay in her palm, a symbol of misery and suffering, never to end. And now, merely by stretching out her hand, she could be rid of it forever.
She glanced at Crevel, a fugitive, wild glance, then down again at the ring.
“I think I must be crazy,” she said slowly. “I don’t want to give it to you.”
“But you must. Of course it doesn’t mean anything, but still you must give it to me. You will feel better then.”
“I know.” She paused. “But I don’t want to.”
He merely held out his hand. She did not move. He waited a moment, then rose to his feet and stood before her and spoke in a tone of impatience.
“This is absurd. We are acting like children. Come, give it to me.”
Still she did not move.
“Look here, Veronica,” he said, and his voice began to tremble a little. “You don’t by any chance imagine you love me, do you?”
“No,” she replied, without looking up.
“Do you hate me?”
“No.”
“Do you want to marry me?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Do you?” He demanded. “Look at me.”
She raised her eyes as far as his chin.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” she said almost pathetically. “I thought I hated you, but now it all seems to be changed.” She appeared to recover herself a little. “The truth is I haven’t the slightest idea whether I want to marry you or not. Not the slightest idea.”
Crevel sat down, then got up. Suddenly he took a determined step forward.
“Look here,” he said in a new tone, “there’s a way of finding out. It won’t hurt you, at least.”
And the next thing Victoria knew an arm was passed around her neck and a pair of firm lips was planted on hers. Mr. Crevel also was no bungler. He did the thing expertly, firmly and thoroughly. There was no roughness in it, but nevertheless, his encircling arm held her as in a vise. This exhibition of the oldest art in the world lasted while a watch would tick off five seconds.
He released her and stepped back, his face pale as death.
“Now,” he said, “you will know—if you hate me—”
She did not speak, but she saw a quivering movement pass over her body from head to foot. Something fell from her hand and rolled on the floor, but neither of them moved. Then suddenly a tiny spot of color appeared on her cheeks and spread slowly, like the birth of a summer’s dawn, until her whole face and neck were suffused with a rosy flaming blush. More slowly still she raised her eyes to his.
It was half an hour later that they found the ring. They found it on the floor under the piano bench.
Ask the Egyptians
This intriguing story is one of Rex Stout’s few stories to feature hints of the supernatural. In it, a poor golfer rises to stardom under the inspiration of a beloved dog. The story appeared in March 1916 in Golfers Magazine, which began serializing The Last Drive four months later.
“Dormie,” said Tom Innes cheerfully, standing on the thirteenth tee. He took his driver from the caddie, addressed th
e ball with a professional waggle, and with a clean, well-timed swing sent it soaring through the air over the brook a hundred and seventy yards away.
“Nice drive.”
This came from his opponent, Mr. Aloysius Jellie, who had in turn taken his driver in hand. In place of the other’s athletic build and graceful, easy motion, Mr. Jellie was the possessor of an angular, every-which-way figure and his movements were awkward and inelegant. His lips tightened grimly as he waved the wooden club back and forth over the ball. A sudden jerk of his body, a mighty swish, and the ball hopped crazily from the tee and trickled over the turf some sixty yards away.
“Topped it,” observed Mr. Innes sympathetically. “Too bad.” But the last two words were drowned by another sound, a yelp of mingled pain and dismay that came from the third spectator of Mr. Jellie’s foozle.
Caddies, being dumb by tradition as well as from self-interest, are not counted. The yelp issued from the throat of a dog, a white, middle-sized dog of heterogeneous pedigree who had sat on his haunches regarding Mr. Jellie with anxious eyes as he addressed the ball. As the ball hopped from the tee the dog had commenced to whine, and when the profound ineptitude of the shot became apparent, the whine increased to a long-drawn-out, unearthly howl.
Mr. Jellie did not reply to his opponent’s sympathetic remark, nor did the howl appear to either surprise or bother him.
“Come on, Nibbie,” he said without turning his head, and off he went towards the ball, with the dog trotting along at his heels and the caddie bringing up the rear.
“Brassie,” said Mr. Jellie grimly, stopping beside the ball and holding out his hand.
The caddie hesitated. “Bad lie, sir. I think an iron—“
“Brassie,” repeated Mr. Jellie, “I want to reach the green.”
Then as the caddie pulled the brassie from the bag his employer suddenly changed his mind.
“Alright, midiron,” he agreed.
A moment later the iron head whistled through the air, the ball rose high—too high—and dropped in the middle of the brook.
“Too much turf, sir,” observed the caddie.
Again Mr. Jellie did not reply, and again he started off with the dog at his heels. Arrived at the brook, he stood on the bank and pointed at the spot where the ball had seemed to drop.
